


En Pointe Blank

by InNovaFertAnimus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (or maybe getting together we'll see), Ballet, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Light Angst, Mission Fic, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28299348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: A new unpleasantness has arisen, this time under the cover of a ballet company which is training children to dance and to kill. The infiltration proves to be difficult for different reasons than expected.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2020





	En Pointe Blank

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saathi1013](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/gifts).



> Happy Holidays Saathi!
> 
> I'm sorry that this is still a wip, but the plot got away from me... I hope you'll still like it! 
> 
> For the narrative, there's basically the evening of the final execution of the take down (objective: XX) and some flashbacks on how they got there (Preparation Step X) to avoid (too much) confusion!

_Objective: Gather accomplices in location 1_

The music swells once last time as the dancers move into their final poses. Their costumes glitter in the stage light as the last chord rings triumphantly through the air. The people around Napoleon rise from their seats and clap enthusiastically. Napoleon takes another moment to appreciate the view. Gaby is in the center of the formation, her body gracefully arched, perfection down to the finger tips. She makes it look easy, like she’s barely out of breath, and he almost believes it, even when Napoleon knows how much work went into training and rehearsal and actually getting everything together at the end. He would stay a little longer himself to show his appreciation if he could. Instead he leaves his seat and makes for the exit.

The foyer is still mostly deserted but Napoleon can already hear the first guests coming up behind him. A quick glance around the room tells him everything he needs to know, though.

There’s still the man in the slightly-too-cheap suit leaning against the bar, the waiter with the gun-shaped bulge badly concealed under his apron and then of course the actual visible security details. A quick headcount confirms that their numbers are unchanged from when the performance started. That means neither of their masters left in-between without Napoleon noticing. He walks over to a small table and pulls out a case of cigarettes. He’s never much liked the taste, but he does admit the communicator design does exactly what it’s supposed to be doing.

With the motion to shield the flame of the lighter he masks the movements of his lips, just in case.

“You’re in position?”

It barely takes a moment before the tiny speaker cracks to life.

“Da. I’m going in.”

Napoleon can’t hold back his smirk. “Good luck, Peril.”

There’s a scoff coming back. Napoleon can picture Illya’s expression just fine.

“Russian agent don’t _need_ luck, Cowboy,” Illya says, a certain smugness audible even through the lousy speakers. “Good luck.”

_Preparation Step 0: Source_

When Gaby walks into the room behind the mirror, Illya and Solo are already waiting for her. There’s still some blood clinging to Illya’s cheek from a deep scratch. That assassin must really have been something.

She turns to look into the interrogation room and pauses. Even though she’s been in Waverly’s employ for several years now and has seen many inconspicuous killers, the sight of the petite woman handcuffed to the chair is still unexpected. It’s not her frame, she holds herself with unmistakable strength, but more her age. She’s young, far younger than they expected for someone with her rap sheet. Gaby does the mental math when she got started in the assassin business and doesn’t like the result.

Her eyes also lack the gleam of someone taking pleasure in wet work. She looks mostly tired.

“So, who is she?”

Waverly steps into the room behind her, handing out folders to them. The smile on his face already tells Gaby that she won’t like what she’s going to hear.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve asked, Ms. Teller. She’s our new informant for the next mission and possibly a future asset.” The almost silent sigh coming from Solo is a familiar sound. Somehow none of their missions have been straightforward so far. Illya shoots a matching blank stare in Waverly’s direction.

Waverly’s good mood is not disturbed in the slightest. “I’m glad we’re all on the same page, then. Surely the next mission will provide decent motivation to oversee your first little run-in with Ms. Volkova. Let’s do our very best, shall we?”

_Objective: Get access to office in location 1_

It’s only when Gaby hears the thundering applause that she takes a deep shuddering breath, which makes her fall slightly out of the pose. The strain of the performance – of the past few months, really - is still deep in her bones, but the noise of the audience gives her the rush to forget about it.

The curtain falls and she falls to her knees in relief. Her dress bunches around her. The other dancers crowd around her with congratulations and pull her back to her feet. Gaby responds in kind, complimenting her co-dancers on their performance. They’ve earned the praise and more.

She has to admit, she missed this. The hard training, the all-consuming drive to perfectionism, the peak at the opening night. She doesn’t regret the choices that lead her to UNCLE, but looking back definitely tinges her years as a dancer in a softer, more positive light.

They leave the stage and line up with the rest of the company for the final bows. The atmosphere is elating, a smile on everyone’s face.

It’s almost too easy to forget for a moment that all of these dancers are trained killers.

The curtain lifts and they fly back onto the stage. The crowd gives another round of applause as they bow.

Whitburn appears from the wings and walks up to Gaby, a huge bouquet in his hands. He holds it out to her, a gleaming smile on his face.

There’s no way for Gaby to forget who this man is, though.

Gaby smiles back and takes the flowers from his hands. It’s easier to make it look natural with the rush of the performance still coursing through her veins.

She lets him lean in to kiss his cheeks affectionately. Just before she draws back his fingers tightens where they lie on her shoulder.

“Meet me for a drink? In private?”

Gaby smirks, leans in a little closer so her lips brush his cheeks.

“Only if it’s champagne.”

She turns back to the crowd again and takes another bow, carefully not to damage the flowers.

So far so good.

It takes some minutes for the applause to ebb away and the curtain to fall a last time. It’s almost sad that Gaby won’t get to dance the rest of the planned shows.

She meets the eyes of Elena and Anna, who both give her small nods on the way to the changing room. This is all she needs. The dancers will take care of their own, then.

The cheer continues into the changing room as they help each other out of the costumes and wash off the more excessive stage make-up. Gaby leaves her hair tied up, not wanting to waste too much time. She has people to meet.

Whitburn waits for her outside. She gives him a smile and takes his arm.

“How many took the invitation?” she asks.

Whitburn laughs joyously. “You will definitely be pleased. There are very few who refused our call.”

She takes a deep breath. “Very good.” She squeezes his arm, then they enter the lobby.

It is definitely packed. Gaby recognizes a lot of faces from their list, but once her eyes find Solo, they refuse to leave.

He’s already chatting up a small crowd, a flute of champagne in his hand. They didn’t see each other today with Gaby being too busy with the show. He looks good. There’s one small lock of hair curling in the middle of his forehead. It’s supposed to make him more approachable, a little dent in his perfect image. It just makes Gaby want to run her fingers through his hair to mess it up more.

Solo looks up in this moment and they eyes meet. Gaby knows the smile on his face is genuine as he waves them over.

There’s another small round of applause as they make their way through the crowd. Whitburn releases her arm and Solo uses the first opportunity to draw her close. His lips find hers with no hesitation. The kiss doesn’t surprise her as much as the intensity does. It’s distracting enough that she barely notices him dipping her back, just like one of the dance moves from the last act. She’s just as out of breath and giddy as he lets her up again.

One of the women in the crowd whom Solo has been entertaining giggles at the display. Gaby recognizes her as Eve Dubois, one of Whitburn’s partners. “Still in the honeymoon phase, I see.”

Napoleon laughs, high and obnoxious, the difference from his rare true laugh jarring in Gaby’s ears. “And I will never not be.” He dutifully introduces Gaby and Whitburn to the crowd. They are from all over the world and all on the list of people Waverly was trying to bait into attending. Solo’s smile as he makes introductions is irritating and all wrong and Gaby can’t wait for this mission to be over. “We’ve just been talking about Mrs. Dubois’ own ballet school. Isn’t the dancing world so small?” Solo says, his arm slung tightly across Gaby’s back.

Gaby meets the gaze of the lady in question and chuckles softly. “It sure is, darling,” she says, shifting a little in his hold to look up at him. “Would you mind fetching me a drink? I’m still thirsty after all this dancing.”

Solo leans down again for a small peck on her temple. “Of course, I’ll be right back.” And with that he’s off towards the bar.

Mr. Patel, which is definitely not his real name according to Waverly’s list, raises his eyebrows as soon as Solo is out of ear shot.

“I take it he’s not the one handling the business side of things?”

Gaby scoffs. “He’s got a pretty face and a pretty inheritance. Can’t have it all, can he?” Her smile turns sharp and extends her hand. “Gabriella Teller, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Dubois giggles again, as Patel and Gaby shake hands. “Oh you and Victoria would have been such good friends. A shame you’ve only met her once.”

“A shame, really,” Gaby replies, her smile not wavering even a little.

Solo appears between her and Whitburn again in this moment, a flute of champagne in each of hand. Whitburn has to take a step to the side, brushing against Solo, who lifts the glasses away from the man just in time not to spill anything. He smiles apologetically. “There are too many people for a klutz like me.” Then he beams at Gaby as he hands her the flute. “But I would be offended in any other case. Your dancing was nothing short of magical today.”

They exchange another few pleasantries with the people in their small circles about the performance tonight. They all know that talking business will come later, once the dancers are lined up and ready for inspection and the ordinary guests have left.

She can see the impatience of Whitburn in the twitch of his jaw though, especially with Solo. After a few more minutes Whitburn steps around Solo to stand on Gaby’s other side.

“I hope you don’t mind me abducting our star of the night. There are so many people who haven’t had the pleasure yet.”

It’s a little too fast, Gaby thinks, but Solo nods placidly. “Of course, lots of important guests here.” He winks at Gaby. “See you later, honey?”

It’s the code they agreed on, so Gaby complies. She doesn’t even know when Solo would have had the chance to lift the office key from Whitburn, but if she trusts Solo to do anything well, it’s stealing things.

“Of course,” she replies

She leans in when he kisses her goodbye again. Maybe it’s just her imagination, but he seems to linger longer than he would have to.

_Preparation Step 1: Gather information_

Illya lets Waverly and his partners do the interrogating. The assassin’s words are flat, professional. Illya knows the tone. He’s perfected it himself. He knew she was good even before they faced her. It was honestly such a close win that he was glad for Cowboy’s backup. Illya had wondered how she got the skills she had, the variety, the flexibility, the success rate. The answer is as simple as he feared - systematic training since early age.

And she’s not alone.

“And how many children are in the facility right now?” Waverly continues his line of questions.

She answers without hesitation. “Fourteen the last time I’ve heard, but they get moved in and out quickly, depending on their potential.”

Waverly makes a note in the file in front of him. His good mood faded a few seconds into the conversation, leaving only the strange gleam of his professional interest behind. Illya does not always see eye-to-eye with his new boss, disagreeing mostly with the methods, but he can’t deny that Waverly knows what he’s doing. In some way he has a tighter hold on them than the KGB did on him. His plans are intricate, sketching out different routes to take and failsafes. It should worry Illya that he now prefers this way of working to the freedom and risk of getting sent in with objectives and objectives only.

“How do they assess the potential?” Waverly continues.

The muscle in the assassin’s jaw jumps. It’s the first visible tell Illya can spot.

“They have instructors, both for dance and combat. Only the children who shine in both aspects stay. There are other, separate facilities for dancers and hitters.”

Her silence on the children who cannot excel at either is deafening.

Illya’s fists ball in return.

Waverly was right. There’s enough motivation for another ill-advised team-up.

_Objective: Assault on location 2_

The guards at the door greet Illya, although they seem a little confused. Illya gives them a nod and walks up to them. They don’t even have the time to be shocked about his surprise attack before they’re unconscious on the ground.

He makes quick work of dragging them behind the bushes lining the house and checks his watch again. There’s about an hour left before the next set of guards are supposed to relieve them. It’s more than enough. He turns and gives a subtle nod towards the roof of the building across the street. A light flashes twice from a window on the second floor, where Sofia is lying in wait with her sniper riffle.

The house is dim. There’s some light coming out from under the doors he passes, where the other staff are spending their downtime. From the sound of it they are drinking, probably to celebrate the premiere. Illya can’t hold back the smug smirk trying to break out on his face. He will enjoy seeing them behind bars, if they make it out alive. It’s not like Illya has any qualms about disposing of them, if it comes to that. He also won’t shed a tear if they’re stupid enough to try to fight once the backup troops arrive to tear the place up.

He silences his steps anyway, even though he doesn’t think he will need to. The house is familiar enough by now. The darkness of the hallway does not hinder him the slightest.

The door towards the dorms is locked with a deadbolt, but the attached padlock was left with its key inside. It never occurred to them that someone might try to break in instead of out. He distracts himself from the thought, that nobody thought them worthy to be taken, with only mild success.

He opens the door and slips the key into one of his pockets, so that nobody will lock the door behind him if the unconscious guards are noticed after all. Illya pulls out his flashlight and shuts the door behind him quietly before descending the stairs.

The stairs to the basement are bare concrete. The corridor one story down is just as bare and cold. He can feel the rage simmering in his chest at the sight, just waiting to be unleashed, even though he should be used to the sight. If he was alone in this, he would hope for a fight, but he is not.

He starts on the door to his right. It creaks when it opens, but he doesn’t think it’s loud enough to carry up the stairs and through the door. It is loud enough, though, that he hears a rustling of fabric when he enters.

Illya turns on the light switch next to the door, illuminating the room. The boy on the bed is already sitting up as best as he can with the handcuff holding down one of his arms.

There’s no hint of sleep in Artem’s eyes, his face carefully expressionless. It looks wrong on him, even more now that Illya knows how his face can light up at the simplest of things. Either he was already awake or this is how he’s used to waking up. Illya doesn’t like either of those options.

The boy’s blank stare is tinted with mild confusion. “Is it time for training again?”

Illya makes an effort to smile. To his surprise it comes easily.

“No. No more training.” He walks over to the bed and takes out the set of lock picks Solo chose for him. He can almost hear the American’s nagging voice in his ears as he kneels down next to the bed to get a better look at the cuff. It’s helpful, having heard Cowboy’s instructions over and over so that they still play in the back of his mind as he picks the lock, even if he will never admit it on pain of death. The lock on the handcuffs doesn’t put up much protest. Illya thinks this might be his personal best.

Artem pulls his now free hand towards his chest and sits up fully, rubbing his wrist. His eyes are wide with incomprehension and a bit of fear as he looks at Illya. There’s a hint of a wobble in his voice, even though he clearly tries to hide it.

“Did I fail?”

Illya sits back on his heels with a pang of pain in his chest. His voice is extra soft. “No, Tyoma, you were very strong.” It doesn’t help with the boy’s confusion, but Illya doesn’t have the time to explain everything. “Get dressed and wait for me to come get you, yes? I will get the others.”

Artem still doesn’t look convinced, but following orders is ingrained enough for him not to question it further. Illya takes a deep breath and checks his watch again. One down, fifteen more to go. Time might become a problem after all.

The other children react much the same. They stay quiet and do what Illya tells them to. It takes a little time for him to pick all the handcuffs, but soon everyone is dressed and gathered in the corridor. It shouldn’t be that easy to round up a bunch of children, but it is and it makes the rage harder to hold back. In this situation, it is helpful. Illya thinks the older ones might understand what’s happening, that they’re being moved without permission from above. They are also old enough to understand the choice presented to them. If they don’t comply with Illya’s plan now, it means complying with Whitburn in the long run. 

Twelve pairs of eyes look at Illya expectantly. He checks his watch again. Ten minutes. They should be able to make it out then.

“Sasha, Kirya and Galya squad leaders. Each squad four members total. Objective undetected evacuation.” The children separate in four groups behind the three teens Illya appointed. Kirill prompts a swap between one of his team and Sasha’s, making the squads even in strength. Illya hates that he doesn’t even have to make this decision, but nods in approval. “Do not engage in combat, I will provide adequate cover if complications arise. In case of separation, rendezvous point is Hotel Jewropeiskaja Room 284. If you’re apprehended by forces under command of Alexander Waverly, cooperate, no rendezvous needed. Any questions?”

Before any can be voiced, alarms go off in the story above.

_Preparation Step 2: Make contact_

The bar looks more like a private club, but Napoleon is not surprised. There are booths and couches scattered thorough the room. Cigar smoke hangs heavy in the air and Napoleon sees quite a few pieces of jewelry that might have made its way into his pocket, if his cover would allow it. Gaby is hooked into his arm, leaning warm against his side. Napoleon doesn’t have to try hard to keep the smile on his face. For a moment he lets himself pretend that this is a simple night out and that they’re only here to unwind a little after a hard day at work. Illya’s absence disturbs that mental image, as does the assassin they’re following through the crowd.

They didn’t have much time to come up with a plan. Sofia Andreyevna Volkova is a busy woman and she can’t afford to go missing for long without causing suspicion. It’s only luck that the perfect in already presented itself about six months ago in a little chop shop in East Berlin. Or rather herself.

Sofia’s foot is in a cast, a little heavier duty than the twisted ankle she retained from the fight with Illya would need. The limp she’s sporting is definitely not proportional to the severity of her injury. Mr. Whitburn doesn’t have to know that, though.

Napoleon recognizes the man from the pictures in the file before they approach. His hair is more white from age than blond, held back in a similar style as Napoleon’s own. James Whitburn looks good for his age, the cut of his immaculate suit and the fake modesty in his eyes making it clear he’s fully aware of his own charms. The man seems to light up at Sofia approaching, then his face falls when he sees the cast.

“Oh no, my love, what did they do to you?”

Sofia twitches at the term of endearment, but her voice stays smooth. “Minor inconvenience on the last job.” She lets herself pulled closer to receive a kiss on her forehead. Napoleon can see the disgust flashing on her face the moment Whitburn can’t see her expression, then it snaps back to the mild smile it wore before. “I’m going to miss the next shows, I’m afraid.”

The man has already taken a breath to talk when she continues quickly. “But I think I already have found a replacement.” Her eyes widen a bit, faking such a perfect mixture of shock and feeling sorry for cutting the man off that she gets away with it.

Despite her trying to kill him and Illya and probably everyone else in UNCLE given the chance, Napoleon finds he likes her well enough. Her mind is just as sharp as her tongue which he discovered once she felt relaxed enough to speak in the meetings without being spoken to first. There’s a lot work to be done before she can be recruited properly, as Waverly made no effort to hide from anyone, but Napoleon is sure she will get there. She reminds him of himself in a way, when he was still just a thief with ambition. Napoleon is sure Waverly will find her an adequate set of partners to get her in line and drive her up the wall.

Whitburn pretends to notice Napoleon and Gaby only after Sofia points a finger at them. Gaby and Napoleon pretend to believe it in turn. Nobody gets into a position like him and stays there for years without scanning for possible threats. And Napoleon knows from experience, every unknown face is a threat.

Sofia turns towards them as well. “This is Gabriella Teller and her husband, but you might have heard of her as Gaby Schmidt. In honor of her late Uncle Udo, they changed their last name.” She gives her boss a meaningful look. “Udo Teller of Vinciguerra Shipping, I think you’ve met.”

Her boss lets out a bark of a laugh, reaching for Gaby’s hand excitedly, clasping it in both of his. There’s genuine excitement in his face compared to the pleasantness of his earlier exchange with Sofia. “Talent, beauty and a name to remember, how lucky I am to meet you today, Mrs Teller. What a tragic end of a promising career. I saw one of your performances in Berlin and was heartbroken when I’ve heard the news.”

Gaby smiles. “Well, it might not have been the end of my career after all. I have a proposal.”

_Preparation Step 3: Infiltrate organization_

  
Illya walks up to the house. There are two men out front, guarding the place. There are no neighbors, so they don’t bother to look inconspicuous. They eye Illya suspiciously, their hands wandering to the gun holsters hanging from their belts.

Illya raises his hands lazily, but keeps on walking towards them.

One of the men, dark hair, burn scar on his chin, takes a threatening step forward.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

Illya comes to a stop at the foot of the porch and takes his time sizing the men up. He could take them in a fight, he’s sure, but only if they don’t shoot him in the head before he can act.

“I’m Garcia’s replacement,” Illya says. He allows his face to stay blank, his eyes narrowed slightly. It’s refreshing that for this he doesn’t need to act much, doesn’t need to make himself seem approachable.

The men exchange a glance at the name. The other one speaks up. One of his front teeth is chipped. “There’s no replacement needed.”

The corners of Illya’s mouth twitch up. “I made sure there is.”

That makes them draw their weapons. Two guns are trained at him, but Illya is already so close, that if he strikes first, they won’t be of any use. He contemplates taking them down as well, but that would defeat his purpose here.

He jumps the three stars to the porch in one go, snatching one of the guy’s gun with his left and punching him in the throat with his right. The moment of shock is everything he needs to turn swiftly and kick the other man’s gun out of his hands.

By the time the first guy hits the ground, gasping for breath like a fish, it’s over.

Illya makes a show of taking apart the gun in his hand, letting all the parts drop to the floor.

“Call Mr. Whitburn,” Illya says. ”I’d like to apply for the open position.”

When burn scar doesn’t move, Illya gives him a tight smile. “I’ll wait outside then.”

The man scrambles for the radio at his belt and disappears into the house. Illya glances down at the other goon, who’s looking at the dropped gun halfway between Illya and him.

“Don’t,” Illya says, keeping his voice neutral.

Chipped tooth looks up to Illya at that and then scrambles after his companion.

Amateurs, really. Illya can’t believe that someone as skilled as Sofia was trained here.

Just as Illya expected, a few minutes later, he’s surrounded by six men with more guns. He turns back to the man with the burn scar.

“What did Mr. Whitburn say?”

“Hands behind your back.”

Illya humors them. Someone from behind slaps handcuffs on him. If they think that those are enough to stop him, they are mistaken, but he plays along when a car pulls up. A sack is thrown over his head and he’s roughly pushed forward and into the vehicle. They don’t even look for trackers. Now Illya almost feels offended.

The car ride is long, mainly for the detours they’re taking. There’s a tense silence in the car that Illya is unwilling to breach.

After probably two hours the car stops. He is grabbed again and lead along, up two flights of stairs, taking several turns.

When the sack gets pulled from his face, he’s in an office. Whitburn sits behind a desk, his elbows propped up and hands folded in front of his chin. He’s letting his gaze wander over Illya’s face, then up and down his body.

Illya waits for him to speak first, letting his shoulders relax while he keeps his head up high.

Whitburn looks at him a moment longer before letting his hands sink down. “Who are you?”

“Sergei Ivanov.” He imagines a snicker at the other end of the bug he’s carrying, but his face stays blank.

“I have never heard of you,” Whitburn says.

Illya’s gaze doesn’t waver. “No, you have not.”

Whitburn drums his fingers on the desk. “Now Mr. Ivanov, I’ve been in this line of work for many, many years and I don’t appreciate the disruption of my supply chain.”

Illya nods in understanding. “No disruption, I can start today.”

This startles a laugh out of Whitburn, but his eyes stay calculating. “My, you are a bold one, aren’t you? I take that trying to track down Garcia is a fruitless endeavor, then.”

Illya shrugs. “Garcia was a bad teacher, you’re welcome.” It’s not a lie. Illya has read up on the man and during their fight it was easy to recognize some of his moves from the fight with Sofia, only less graceful, going for force instead of technique. The interviews with Sofia made it clear that he trained all of them the same, only the ones fitting his particular brand making it through, or in Sofia’s case, the ones who can adapt it to suit themselves fast enough.

Whitburn drums his fingers on his desk again, this time longer. Illya knows this is a tipping point. This is where the dice are cast. Either Illya is going to be taken out back, where his team will wait for him before Whitburn can dispose of him, or Whitburn takes the bait. If Illya were serious about this, it would be an opportunity he couldn’t afford to turn down and Whitburn knows this.

It’s always a gamble. Taking risks and succeeding is what lets men like Whitburn stay at the top of their operation.

When Whitburn’s fingers still, Illya knows he has won.

“How so?” Whitburn says, his voice light, curious.

Illya “Sofia fights just like him, no good. I beat him, I beat her because of him.” There’s a small twitch in Whitburn’s eyebrows. Illya can only guess he’s connecting the dots of the story Sofia has fed him to explain her injury. The fact that Illya knows her name has not passed him by either.

Whitburn hums. “I don’t see what you would gain from joining my modest operation, then.”

“I’ve been looking for a more steady line of work. Very promising, your connection to Ms. Teller,” says Illya, watching for the same twitch in his eyebrows. It happens twice. Illya notes that Whitburn doesn’t like him to be too informed. He will keep that in mind for later.

There’s another bout of silence, then Whitburn pushes back from his desk to stand up with a small sigh. He gestures to the man on Illya’s right. “If you would uncuff the gentlemen, please.”

After a moment of hesitation, the man complies. Metal clicks on metal as the lock is turned, then the cuffs fall to the ground.

“Well, I suspect I can’t beat you, and you know what they say about the people you can’t beat.”

He extends his hand to Illya. “Happy to welcome you on board, Mr. Ivanov.”

Illya’s smile is tight as he takes his hand and shakes it firmly.

If you can’t beat them, join them. Illya is still pretty set on beating the man, though.

**Author's Note:**

> Capitalists hate them: Readers who leave comments and kudos make writing fanfic more appealing than earning money!


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